


Riddles in the Dark

by fredbassett



Series: Stephen/Ryan series [118]
Category: Primeval, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 04:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17359358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: Lester and Lyle make a return trip into the Devil’s Crowll in search of some missing cavers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Annariel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annariel/gifts).



“Snoop!”

The black and white whippet acknowledged the call by flicking snow from his ears and cocking his head enquiringly to one side.

Peter Mitchell rolled his eyes at the dog and rattled the old tobacco tin that contained the gravy bones that the nine-month-old pup liked so much. That did the trick. The dog bounded through the fresh snow and sat down, his thin tail swishing through the layer of white covering the frozen red clay that characterised so much of the Scowles. Around them, centuries old yew trees clustered darkly, their branches weighed down by ice and snow.

“Good dog.” Peter handed over the treat and clipped a lead onto the whippet’s bright red harness. The next section of the track was riddled with old mine workings and he had no intention of letting the curious pup get too close to any of them. With the dog now on an extendible lead, Peter decided to take a short cut back to the car. It was cold under the trees, and he fancied a hot chocolate back at home.

With Snoop at his side, he slithered down a steep slope to the bottom of one of the deep furrows in the ground left behind by the iron workings that had started in the forest around 3,000 years ago. Peter knew the labyrinthine hollows like the back of his hand, and had explored several of the caves and mines in the area with his parents, both cavers. The snow was lighter on the ground in that part of Puzzlewood, as the area had become known. The evergreen yews had held back a lot of the snow, although periodically, a bird landing on a branch would dislodge a minor avalanche on top of an unwary walker. Not that Peter had seen that many people in the past hour. The threat of more snow had kept most way.

He followed the deep scar in the earth around a corner and saw up ahead a dark hole in the snow at the base of a small limestone cliff overhung by an old, gnarled yew. A glint of light reflected off the bars of the stainless-steel gate that guarded the entrance to one of the caves. Peter shivered, and not because of the cold. The Devil’s Crowll was somewhere he had no inclination whatsoever to visit. The place had a bad reputation and was one of the few underground places in the forest that it wasn’t possible to gain access to through the proper channels.

He kept Snoop close to his leg as they passed the entrance. When the pup whined, Peter bent down to smooth the dog’s head, the only part he could reach that wasn’t swathed in the grey fleece coat that kept the cold at bay. The black and white skull and crossbones scarf he’d bought for Snoop’s Christmas present stuck out from the fleece and Peter noticed that the knot had nearly come undone. Pulling off his gloves, he quickly retied it and then promptly got mugged for another gravy bone.

Just as he was about to move on, Peter noticed the scuff marks in the snow around the cave entrance. It looked like boots had disturbed the covering of mud and leaves before the freeze set in and then the snowfall had overlain the prints. Snoop nosed at the warn air gusting out of the hole, his ears flat against his skull as if there was something in the earthy smell that he didn’t like.

The dog whined and pawed at the earth around the entrance, sticking his nose through the bars for another sniff.

“If you don’t like it, come away,” Peter said, tugging at the handle of the lead.

Snoop suddenly pounced with both front paws and burred his muzzle into the fine white snow. Expecting him to have grabbed yet another stick, Peter turned away. A moment later, something shiny and heavy dropped at his feet. Snoop stood there looking pleased with himself.

Peter realised he was looking down at a padlock. The hasp had sheared off, leaving just the lock itself behind. He turned quickly back to the gate and dropped to his knees in the snow. The opening was no more than a metre square, the steel gate cemented firmly into place on all sides. The gate was undamaged, but his suspicions were immediately confirmed when one tug on the bars caused it to swing outwards.

“Oh fucking hell…” He pulled his mobile phone out and stared at it more in hope than expectation. Mobile reception in the forest was at best patchy and at worst non-existent. It would be quicker to head straight for home rather than fanny around trying to get to somewhere that might let him get a call through.

He swung the gate shut, straightened up and, with an uneasy backward glance at the hole in the ground, started a slow but steady jog over the uneven ground, to the end of the scowle where he then scrambled over into another one and then back up a slippery slope, assisted by a fallen tree, to complete his short cut. After that he stuck to the main paths, where he could move at a faster run without risk of turning an ankle.

Snoop loped at his side, puzzled by the change of pace, but clearly enjoying the run.

Fifteen minutes later, Peter was back at the car park where he’d left his mum’s car. He’d passed his test six weeks after his 17th birthday, and had spent the last two months gaining confidence on the forest roads. She’d not been keen on him taking the car out on ungritted roads with more snow forecast, but he’d promised to turn around as soon as any more flakes started to fall. Judging by the leaden grey sky, that wouldn’t be long now.

Still no phone reception.

Forcing himself to keep to a sensible speed on the treacherous road, Peter drove the few miles home through the forest roads that led to the hotel his parents had run for the past six years

To his relief, the car park still contained a Hilux and two large black Range Rovers as well as his parents’ cars and those of the three other sets of guests who were spending the weekend at the hotel. Pausing only to pull off his boots and leave Snoop’s coat in the porch, Peter skidded into the lobby where his mother was putting the finishing touches to the enormous Christmas tree his dad had brought in that morning.

“Mum, someone’s taken the lock off the Devil’s Crowll!”

****

“What are the chances of it just being vandalism?” Lester said, trying hard to inject a note of optimism into his voice.

“My thumbs have been itching for the past two days,” Lyle said.

“There has been a rash of anomalies again,” Nick Cutter said.

“And apart from an extremely puzzled giant sloth that Finn wanted to keep as a pet, nothing has come through.”

“Maybe we just haven’t found the problem yet,” Lester said, watching as his optimism packed its bags and ran away to join a travelling circus.

“Sergeant White has just rung through the results of the PNC check on the car that’s still in the carpark at Puzzlewood,” Stephen Hart announced, walking into the bar, with a piece of paper in his hand. “It’s registered to a David Haller in Swindon. Age 23, works as a car mechanic. The sergeant wants to know if you want him to arrange for someone to go round to the house.”

“There was snow on the car,” Peter Mitchell said. “That means it’s been there at least a day and a half without moving, doesn’t it?”

Lyle nodded, still scratching at the ball of his thumb. “We need to check the car out. That’ll be quicker than sending someone over to knock on doors in Swindon.”

“Breaking into cars is illegal,” Lester pointed out mildly.

Lyle grinned. “Finn’ll make sure no one notices.” He stood up. “Come on, Pete, it’s your catch, so you may as well come to. Let’s take a look in the boot and see what they’ve left behind.”

****

Forty-five minutes later, Lyle arrived back, Peter Mitchell and Finn in tow. Lester looked up, knowing immediately from the look on his lover’s face that Lyle wasn’t bearing good news.

“There are three of them,” Lyle said. “Definitely cavers. Finn and I’ll get kitted up and get back over there and see what’s happened to the stupid fuckers.”

Lester stood up. “You need three for a trip down the Crowll.”

Lyle grinned. “I thought you were never going to offer, sweetie.”

“Fuck off, Jon,” Lester muttered, much to Peter Mitchell’s amusement. “I knew giving the rest of your lot the weekend off was a bad idea.”

His boyfriend’s hazel eyes met his, the habitual humour slipping away for a minute. “The two of us’ll be fine. We’ll need you on the surface if anything goes wrong.”

“Bollocks. Jim and Mary can run surface support and call it in if we’re not back on time.” To reinforce his point, Lester pulled his expensive cashmere sweater over his head and dropped it onto the arm of a chair. “Come on, Jon, we’re wasting time.”

****

His last trip down the Devil’s Crowll three years ago had been Lester’s first trip for several years. Then, he’d been wearing a wetsuit and carrying a gun. The difference now was that since starting a relationship with Lieutenant Jon Lyle, he’d spent a lot more time underground, was considerably fitter and was more used to carrying a gun. He was also wearing an oversuit and fleece undersuit, which made even more difference to his comfort.

“If we’re not back in 18 hours, start worrying,” Lyle said as he prepared to slip through the entrance.

“If you’re not back in 18 hour I’m calling it in as a rescue and coming down after you,” Jim Mitchell said, aiming his remarks at Lyle’s rapidly disappearing helmet.

“I’ve not been rescued from a cave yet and I don’t intend to start now.” Lester crouched down and shuffled feet first into the entrance, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. The Crowll didn’t hold the best of memories, but he’d meant it when he said three was the minimum sensible number for a trip into the Forest of Dean’s toughest cave system. “Chuck the bag in after me,” he said to Finn. They were each carrying a tackle bag with the ropes and ladders needed for the descent, as well as a first aid kit and spare lights. And just in case the cave had more trouble in store, each of the bags contained a Sig Sauer pistol and several spare magazines. In addition, Lyle and Finn’s bags each contained a Mossberg 590 shotgun with a collapsible stock. Lyle had gone for stopping power over rapid fire on this occasion, and as there wasn’t much room for distance shooting in the cave, Finn had agreed.

Lester braced his feet against the sides of the muddy rift and reached up to take the tackle bag from Finn. With the straps slung over one arm, Lester was able to slither to the bottom of the short climb and start to make his way through the reddish-brown rock, following Lyle’s light down the narrow passage.

There was little in the way of walking passage in the entrance series of the Crowll. Mostly it was a series of short climbs and tight wiggles, descending steadily to the first obstacle, an awkward three-metre climb, with a tight take-off that left him dangling in mid-air, flailing for the one solid, elusive foothold until Lyle grabbed his foot and stuck the toe of his Wellington boot on the rock projection.

“Cheers, Jon.” Lester finally got his head over the lip and could see to take the next couple of moves down to the floor of a small chamber.

“OK, possum?”

“Better than last time.” Lester shouldered the tackle bag again, and set off after his lover.

The first pitch was the easy one. A six-metre free-hang belayed to a bolt on the left-hand wall. An electron ladder already hung from the bolt, providing proof – if any had been needed – that the Devil’s Crowll had been pirated. The dig down the cave had been finished three years ago when the cave system had finally been connected through a long and difficult sump to the further reaches of Clearwell Cave. As the system had experienced anomaly activity, the cave had remained closed to visits, even by genuine cavers. No one had been willing to take any chances.

Lyle pulled the ladder up and replaced it with one of their own, even though it appeared in good order. Once done, he climbed down quickly and headed off into the darkness.

Lester stepped out onto the ladder, keeping his weight on his feet as he quickly climbed down the thin metal ladder. “Ladder free!” he called to Finn and then continued down the cave. Good practice would have seen them use a lifeline on the pitch, but they were all experienced and took the view that speed was of the essence. They would line the more difficult of the climbs.

The second pitch was an awkward sod and Lester was glad of the security of the rope around his waist as he dropped into the narrow crevice, trying to stop the ladder from swinging into the tightest part of the rift. He vividly remembered the problems he’d had on that section on his first trip. He’d got solidly jammed in the narrow chimney, getting the gun holster on his thigh jammed under the rungs of the ladder. This time the gun was in the bag and it was easier to move without the constriction of a wet suit. Lester was able to keep moving, sliding between the smooth rock walls to emerge in one of the larger chambers where bands of vivid green ore streaked the rock.

Lester leaned against the wall and quickly undid the rope from around his waist, calling up the pitch, “Rope free!” He looped the rope back around his waist, ready to line Finn on a double rope from below. “Climb when ready!”

A moment later, “Climbing!”

Finn slithered down the pitch so quickly that Lester suspected he’d barely had his feet in the rungs of the ladder at all, simply bracing his body in the chimney to prevent too rapid a descent. The young soldier landed lightly on his feet on the muddy floor.

“OK, boss?”

Lester nodded and moved off down the passage.

They reached the longest of the pitches after two and a half hours of rapid caving. Their tackle bags were considerably lighter by now, as Lyle had insisted on replacing the all ladders left behind by the cavers who’d broken into the Crowll. The soldier had no intention of trusting his life to someone else’s kit, especially when the owners had been irresponsible enough to break into a locked cave.

This pitch was 25 metres deep and dropped down through two awkward corkscrew bends, one of which pinched alarmingly in the middle. Lyle had already put on a climbing harness and had attached an abseiling device to the rope. On the way back, they would climb the ladder, running the rope through a chest ascender that would prevent a fall.

“I’ll see you on the other side of the squeeze,” he said, referring to the feature in the cave known as the Devil’s Arsehole.

“Best of luck,” Lester muttered, pulling on his own harness and getting his kit ready so he could follow Lyle as soon as the rope was free.

The main pitch held considerably fewer terrors than it had done on Lester first trip through the cave and the descent was accomplished with little in the way of problems, apart from a potentially interesting moment when his right foot got inexplicably tangled up with the ladder and gave him some difficulty when he tried to break free. To deal with the problem he had to wedge across the drop and haul up both the ladder and his own foot until he was able to kick free of the metal rung. After that, the rest of the pitch was easy.

By the time Lester reached the flat muddy floor of the chamber below, Lyle’s boots had disappeared into the squeeze. The scraping noises issuing from the low tunnel made it clear that Lyle hadn’t managed to get clear of that section of passage yet. The harsh sound of panting and the occasional expletive told Lester that this part of the cave hadn’t miraculously got any easier.

Lester was glad of the opportunity to catch his breath. He was still nowhere near as fit as the soldiers, but he had regained the same easy confidence in his environment that had characterised the caving he’d done with his brother Ralph in their university days in Bristol when trips to the Mendips, South Wales and Yorkshire had been a regular part of his social life.

Eventually, Lyle’s voice echoed back into the chamber, “All yours, fruit bat!”

Finn grinned. “The old ones are always the best, boss.”

Lester rolled his eyes. “Don’t encourage him.”

The squeeze needed to be approached from flat on the floor, wriggling head first into a low tunnel that dipped steadily down for nearly a metre before gradually angling back up again. In Sod’s Law of caving, the tightest spot was at the bottom of the dip. The mud on the floor was hard and compacted, and it was difficult to get any purchase on the mud and rock. Lester took it very slowly, doing his best to keep his breathing level in the confined space.

Panicking would only make matters far, far worse.


	2. Chapter 2

Inch by painful inch, Lester made progress through the Devil’s Arsehole.

The rock pressed in around him on all sides. Turning his head was impossible now. All he could do was hope he’d aimed his helmet at the widest part of the passage and he half-wished he’d taken it off before entering the squeeze. The cave seemed to be contracting around him and for a moment, Lester could feel panic starting to rise in his chest as he fought for something to jam his boots against. He forced himself to go limp, breathing slowly and deeply through his nose, trying not to think about the carbon dioxide that sometimes ponded in such places in other parts of the mines. But despite his fears, the air remained clear, even though his body was now solidly blocking the passage. Lester exhaled slowly then bunched up his muscles and wriggled. His body moved inside the oversuit but he didn’t feel he was making any actual progress through the squeeze. He tried again and this time his right foot found some purchase, enabling him to push forward, gaining a couple of hard-won inches.

That was the incentive he needed and with another couple of pushes, Lester felt the pressure on his chest ease as the passage started to rise again, taking him away from the lowest and tightest point of the Devil’s Arsehole.

“Nearly there, my adorable little mudskipper.”

Lester shoved his right arm up into the chamber beyond the squeeze and flipped Lyle the finger. A strong hand promptly seized his wrist and Lyle helped haul him out of the hole.

“Doesn’t get any better, does it?” Lyle said, sympathy dancing in his hazel eyes.

“At least this time we’re not carrying diving bottles.”

Lyle grinned. “I love it when you look on the bright side, darling.”

Lester reached back into the squeeze to grab the tackle bag that Finn was pushing in front of him. The young soldier’s thanks were muffled as he struggled through the tight dip in the passage to emerge, moments later, flushed, muddy and cursing under his breath.

“There was no sign of diving equipment in the car, so the buggers can’t be far now,” Lyle commented. “What’s the betting on light failure?”

“Fucking stupid to go pirating somewhere like this without spare lights, boss.”

“Well, it’s either that or their ladder snapped on the last pitch.”

“Free-climbable,” Finn said.

“If you’re any good.”

“If they’re not, they shouldn’t be here,” Lester said. “Come on, the suspense is killing me.”

The final pitch in that section of the cave was a three-metre drop that was, as Finn had pointed out, free-climbable if you knew what you were doing. The usual belay was to a bolt on the left-hand wall, but Lester could see instantly that something had changed. The rock was fractured and several large chunks had simply peeled away.

“Unlucky,” Lyle commented, then in his best parade ground voice he yelled, “Anyone down there?”

Finn pulled their last ladder and rope from the tackle bag, along with several long slings and promptly set about rigging the pitch from an alternative belay, improvising with a large, heavy boulder that seemed solidly jammed into one side of the passage.

“Anyone down there?” Lyle yelled again, even louder.

A weak echo came back to greet him, leaving Lester wondering for a moment if it was just Lyle’s voice bouncing back to him, but a moment later, he revised his opinion when a faint but intelligible voice called back, “We’re down here!”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Lyle muttered. “OK, I think we can handle his one without a line. I’m going down.”

The pitch was an easy one, with the rock wall preventing the ladder from swinging around while you were climbing. Lester followed his lover down into the large passage at the bottom of the climb that led after about 40 metres to Lake Chamber. There, they found the men whose progress they’d been following down the cave huddled together on a ledge above the water. They were all equipped with reasonable-looking gear, but the one thing they were lacking was light.

“Looks like you were right, boss,” Finn commented. “No spare lights. Complete wank-puffins.”

One of the men jerked his head up at that, but mustering a glare when he’d been stuck down there for over a day was clearly beyond him.

“Any of you hurt?” Lyle demanded.

Three heads shook in unison.

“Good, because it’ll be fucking ages before a rescue party gets here. We’ve got spare lights, so we can make a move when you’re ready.”

One of the men raised his arm and pointed it shakily at the dark pool that gave the chamber its name. “There’s something down there…”

“Yeah, it’s called a lake.” Lyle retrieved three chocolate bars and a bottle of water from one of the bags. “Get this down you and start moving around. That’ll warm you up.”

“There’s something down there!” The man’s voice rose and cracked on the final word. ”We saw eyes in the dark…”

“You always do when you’ve had light failure, mate.” But despite his words, Lyle reached for the bag with the Mossberg in and kept it close to hand. “Names?”

“Dave Haller,” said the man who’d claimed to have seen the eyes.

“Steve,” one of the men said around a mouthful of chocolate.

The third had his back pressed against the rock wall and his arms wrapped around his knees. The chocolate bar was clutched in one dirty hand, but he’d made no move to start eating.

Finn knelt next to him and took the chocolate, ripping open the wrapper before handing it back. “My name’s Rob. Come on, this’ll give you some energy.” The compassion in his voice was at odds with his earlier remarks about the men’s competence. Lester watched as the man took a bite out of the chocolate bar and looked at Finn with grateful eyes. “What’s your name?” the young soldier asked.

“Damian.”

“OK, Damian, you get that down you and we’ll see about getting you lot out of here.”

“If you aren’t the rescue, who are you?” Dave Haller asked, a trace of belligerence creeping into his voice.

“We’re the blokes who are going to haul your arses out of here,” Lyle said. “Jon Lyle. Pleased to meet you.”

“We did see eyes.”

“I didn’t say you hadn’t,” Lyle said, and Lester watched a brief moment of uncertainty flicker in his lover’s eyes.

“What happened with the belay?” Lester asked, raking the beam of his light around the underground lake. There were ripples on the water, but they could have come from drips. Despite that, he followed Lyle’s suit and made sure the tackle bag with the Sig Sauer in was nearby.

“Came out when we tried to climb the ladder.” Haller muttered.

Lyle raised his eyebrows but didn’t press the point. The use of the word ‘we’ was telling, and Lester had a suspicion that the men had been spooked by something and had scrambled for the ladder, maybe with two of them trying to climb at once. The belay hadn’t stood the strain and despite the eyes in the dark, they’d not been able to free-climb the pitch.

Lester could see that Lyle was itching to rip the men a new arsehole each, but so far, the soldier was managing to hang on to his temper. Lester shot a look at his hands. There was no sign of his lover scratching his thumbs, which Lester took as a good sign. He pulled a bottle of water out of his tackle bag and handed it to Haller.

“Drink some of this. We can take it slowly on the way out. You’ll be fine.”

Haller gave him a sour look but he took a long swig of the water before handing it on.

“I’ll get the pitch rigged for lining, boss,” Finn said.

Lyle nodded. While Finn quickly climbed the ladder, he looked out over the dark water of the sump pool, staring thoughtfully at the constantly spreading ripples. A quick glance at the roof revealed no obvious source of drips. He met Lester’s eyes and gave a quick shrug.

Lester joined Lyle by the edge of the water. Keeping his voice to a murmur, he asked, “Are they up to the return trip?”

“Probably not, but they’ll make it out whether they like it or not.”

“Best parade ground voice?”

“My best get-your-sorry-arse-round-this-fucking-assault-course-or-I’ll-rip-your-liver-out-and-make-you-eat-it voice.”

“Motivational speaking Hereford style?” As he spoke, Lester noticed that the ripples were spreading more strongly now.

Lyle reached into the tackle bag and quickly strapped on the black webbing bands of his thigh holster.

“Jesus fuck!” The exclamation came from Dave Haller. “What’s down here that you need a fucking gun for? Who the fuck are you guys?”

“I told you, we’re the guys who are going to haul your arses out of here. Now stop sitting there like a fucking wet weekend and get clipped onto that rope. I’ve got no fucking idea what your eyes in the dark are attached to, but I don’t imagine you want to hang around here long enough to find out, so start fucking moving!” Lyle’s voice was as sharp as a whip crack. “Now”

The three men scrambled to their feet and Damian made a grab for the rope that Finn had just tossed down.

“One at a fucking time!” Finn yelled. “You know what happens when you don’t play like nice puppies!”

Damian fumbled with a karabiner on his belt, his hands almost certainly numb with cold. After two attempts, he got the robe clipped in and managed to croak, “Ready to climb!”

“Taking up slack!” Finn called as he drew up the excess rope until he could feel Damian’s weight on the end. “Climb when ready!”

“Climbing!” The standard safety check having been carried out, Damian grasped the thin metal rungs of the ladder and started to climb. His movements were halting, and it was immediately clear that Finn was taking much of the man’s weight and was effectively hauling Damian up the pitch.

“Are you expecting trouble, Jon?” Lester said, looking pointedly at his lover’s thumbs.

“Eyes in the dark down here isn’t likely to be good news. Keep your eyes on the water. Yell if anything moves.” Lyle drew the Mossberg shotgun out of the tackle sack and slung it across his shoulder. “Even if it turns out to be our old friend with the tusks through his nose, this should stop the bugger.”

“Good, remind me not to complain next time you put in a kit requisition.”

“Keep an eye on the water,” Lyle said. “I want those three muppets out of here asap. If Mr Tusky does turn up, at least we know he can’t climb ladders.”

“Neither can this lot,” Lester muttered, earning him a grin from Lyle. Pulling open the top of the tackle bag, he drew out the second Mossberg, fed in five shells and kept the barrel pointing at the lake.

The two cavers at the bottom of the pitch looked around and their eyes widened in shock at the weaponry now on display.

“Below!” called Finn and a moment later a coil of rope slapped into the mud at the bottom of the pitch.

Lyle grabbed it and held the loop at the end of the rope out to the man called Steve. The caver was on his feet, but he looked weak, shaky and clearly terrified. Lester wasn’t sure if the guns were reassuring or scaring the men and frankly, he didn’t really care. None of the three were in much of a state to face the return trip, but staying down there and waiting for rescue wasn’t an option, not with something lurking in the pool.

The ripples were spreading wider now, crossing the dark surface of the water and lapping at the trampled mud. The remains of the wrecked diving camp from his first trip down the cave had been removed, along with what was left of the dead diver. Lyle had insisted on doing that, despite Lester’s objections. The trip had consisted only of the soldiers and it hadn’t been easy. Afterwards, the four of them had retired to the bar in the Mitchell’s hotel and had proceeded to drink away the memories. The dead diver’s family had at last been able to hold a proper funeral and that had been what had mattered most. Lester hadn’t asked for details and Lyle hadn’t volunteered any information.

A gleam of light on the far side of the pool caused him to tighten his grip on the shotgun’s stock.

“James?”

“I’m on it, just keep them moving. I’ve got this.”

“Come on, sunshine, let’s be having you…!” Lyle’s tone was light and encouraging as he propelled Steve to the ladder. “Finn, take up slack!”

“He’s seen something!” Dave Haller sounded close to panic.

“He’s the cautious type.” Lyle slapped Steve on the shoulder and called, “Climbing!”

Jerkily, Steve started to climb. His movements were slow and uncoordinated, and it was immediately clear he was having difficulties. Finn started hauling again and progress improved.

After that first rogue gleam of light, Lester had seen nothing to alarm him but he kept the weapon trained on far side of the pool from where the ripples appeared to be emanating. As soon as Finn hauled Steve to the top of the pitch and threw the rope back down, Lyle was ready, clipping Haller on and jerking the rope to free it from a projection in the rock. Lester waited for Finn to run through the usual mantra, but it didn’t come.

Instead, he heard the words, “Boss, give me a minute, the main belay’s looking dodgy. Gonna rig a back-up.”

“I’m not fucking staying down here!” Haller grabbed the ladder and scrabbled at the rungs.

“No you don’t, sunshine.” Lyle’s tone was light but firm. “It won’t take him a minute.”

Lester kept his eyes on the water, not on the scene at the foot of the ladder. He’d just seen another gleam of light. There was movement now, definitely movement, and what looked like long, pale fingers creeping around the projection of rock that hit the final descent into the sump.

He drew in a slow breath and aimed the weapon. “Things might get noisy, boys.”

Haller let out a sharp cry and tried to shoulder Lyle out of the way so he could get hold of the ladder again, but Finn moved faster and out of the corner of his eye Lester saw the ladder snake upwards, leaving him free to rig another belay. Leaving them stranded in the final chamber.

Lyle quickly grabbed one of the caver’s arms and twisted it up his back in one practised movement. “Stop being a fucking pain in the arse!”

Lester kept all his attention focussed on what was happening on the other side of the sump pool. The fingers were thin, all knuckles and long nails, but human enough to stop Lester sending a three-round burst into the corner of the pool.

“James, now might be a good time…”

“I’ve got this, Jon,” Lester said firmly.

“You’ve been around Cutter too long.”

Despite the situation, Lester grinned. “You know how to wound a man, my little mole rat.”

A second hand joined the first and a skinny arm came into view, followed by a bony elbow.

“Get that ladder back down here as soon as you can, mate,” Lyle said, his voice utterly calm.

“Thirty seconds, boss.”

A pale face peered at Lester, large round eyes reflecting the light of his headlamp. Straggly hair grew from the top of the creature’s head and hung limply around sallow, sunken cheeks.

Lester kept his finger on the trigger and his eyes on the creature. Thin lips split into a wide smile revealing sharp, pointed teeth.

A guttural hiss sent a shiver down Lester’s spine.

His hands gripped the shotgun tighter. “Get those three out of here as soon as you can, Jon.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Don’t come any closer.” Lester wasn’t sure why he’d spoken but when the round, watery eyes widened, he knew he’d been understood.

Gurgling laughter bubbled up in the creature’s throat as it climbed around the edge of the sump pool like a large, albino spider. Its limbs and body were emaciated, its backbone showing clearly through skin that looked to be stretched too tightly over flesh and bone.

“Fishes, no fishes, preciouss. We came looking for fishes, we did,,,,”

“You won’t find fish here,” Lester said calmly. The creature didn’t seem overly threatening, but the teeth looked sharp and he was willing to bet there was surprising strength in those long fingers.

“No fishes? We followed the string, we did, looking for fishes but all we found was themses…. themses but no fishes. Curses and splashes, precious, curses and splashes.”

“James…” There was a warning note in Lyle’s voice. A warning note that said, as plain as words: shoot the fucker, shoot it now.

“Get Haller up the ladder, Jon, then cover me while I climb.”

“They’re leaving us, precious, was it something we said? Don’t they like us?”

“It’s nothing personal,” Lester said, fighting down mounting incredulity. He ran an operation devoted to chasing dinosaurs, so why the fuck was this creeping him out? “Did you come through a light?”

“A light? It knows about the light, precious, yes it does. What does it know about the light?”

Lester heard Finn’s warning call followed by the slap of the ladder hitting the mud of the chamber floor. A brief scuffle followed, along with some choice curses from Lyle that called into question the validity of Haller’s parent’s marriage, amongst other things.

The creature raised its non-existent eyebrows and tilted its head to one side. “Been hanging out with orcses, has it? Talks like ‘em, and smells like ‘em. We tried to help, we did, but they tried to run away. Sméagol only wanted to help.” The creature made a gulping noise in its throat.

A shiver ran through Lester’s body. This was beyond weird now and well into did he get really pissed last night and was this just a crazy dream territory.

“Is that your name?” Lester said, forcing the part of his mid that just wanted to jibber quietly in a corner to man up and deal with this shit, when all he really wanted to do was to get the hell out of the chamber and away from something that shouldn’t exist outside the pages of a book. “Sméagol?”

The creature – Sméagol – made the gulping, gurgling noise again. Lester took it as a yes.

“Is the light still there, Sméagol?”

The head swung from side to side. “Sometimes there, sometimes not. Sméagol stayed here with new friends.”

“Your new friends are going now. Follow the string, Sméagol. Follow the string back to the light. There are no fish here.”

“No fishes? Curse us and splash us, my precious. No fishes?”

“No fishes,” Lester said. “This isn’t your world, Sméagol. Go home.”

“Home, precious? Sméagol has no home.”

“Ready when you are, sweetie,” Lyle said, his voice cutting through the surreal exchange.

The use of the pet name told Lester that Lyle didn’t immediately regard the creature as a threat – or if he did, he clearly thought that the Mossberg would be more than adequate to deal with the problem. He was probably right, but Lester was strangely reluctant to use force on the wretched beast.

“You can’t stay here, Sméagol. There are no fish and if the light closes again, you’ll be struck here, alone, with nothing to eat. We’re leaving now, and you need to find the light.”

“The light hurts our eyes, precious. Hurts our eyes, it does.”

“That’s better that than staying here to starve, Sméagol.”

“Sméagol wants fishes.” The voice sounded sulky now, but there was an underlying note of fear – and a deep well of loneliness so stark that it made Lester’s heart ache for the creature.

“Go home, Sméagol. This isn’t your world. You don’t belong here. You need fish and you won’t find them here.”

“Sméagol can come with you. New friends, Nice friends.”

Sméagol climbed around the rock and sat on the mud bank a few metres away from Lester, his head tilted to one side, hope shining in the huge eyes.

“You can’t come with us, Sméagol, this isn’t your world.” Lester groped frantically for an argument the creature would understand, but came up blank. This was just too fucking surreal, even by ARC standards of weird shit. He risked a quick glance at what was happening on the pitch. Haller was being helped off the ladder by Finn. The young soldier’s eyes were almost as wide as Sméagol’s but despite that, he was getting on with the job of getting the men out of the cave.

“Start moving them to the squeeze,” Lyle instructed. “Get them through if you can.”

“Go with them, Jon,” Lester said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Like fuck you will.”

“Sméagol doesn’t like him.” Sméagol sniffed and made the gulping noise in his throat.

“The feeling’s mutual,” Lyle muttered.

“Play a game with us,” Sméagol demanded, crossing his ankles and wrapping his skinny arms around his knees. “Play riddles. We likes that game, don’t we, preciousss?”

“And if I win, you’ll follow the string and go back through the light?” Lester was grasping at straws, but he knew how this was meant to go down. Or at least he thought he did.

“And if Sméagol wins, we comes with you!”

“Cutter’ll freak out,” Lyle muttered, but loud enough to be heard.

“He won’t have a monopoly on that,” Lester said. “Jon, do what I said, start getting the other three out of here. I’ll catch you up. I’ll be quite safe. He’s hardly the most dangerous thing I’ve faced, remember?”

“Sméagol’s not dangerous,” the creature whispered. “Sméagol wants to be your friend, yessss he does, preciousss…”

Lester sat down on a rock, the Mossberg cradled across his knees. He wished he’d followed Lyle’s lead and strapped a Sig Sauer to his thigh, but the shotgun would have to do. If he fired it, the noise would be enough to terrify the creature even if the shot went astray.

“You start,” he offered, desperately racking his brains for anything even remotely resembling a riddle.

Sméagol rubbed his thin hands together in glee.

“I yearn to have what I had yesterday.  
It hurts men and hinders words,  
but makes speech easier. What did I have?”

Lester smiled. He’d spent long enough with Lyle and the soldiers to know the answer to that one. “Beer,” he said with confidence.

“Yesss,” Sméagol hissed gleefully. “We likes this game, precious. Your turn now…”

“I fly without wings and cry without eyes. What am I?” If that was the best he could come up with, this wasn’t going to be a long contest, but to his surprise, it seemed to have Sméagol stumped. Maybe the wretched creature had been under the earth too long to remember the world outside…

Sméagol shook his head from side to side, thinking hard. He muttered to himself and scratched at his thin hair. “A cloud!” The words burst out of him and he smiled widely, maybe remembering happier days. “He’s a cloud, precious!”

Lester forced a smile. “Well done. Your turn now.”

A skeletal hand slapped the surface of the water. “ I am not alive, but I grow; I don't have lungs, but I need air; I don't have a mouth, but water kills me. What am I?

Lester shivered. He was starting to get cold, the damp of the cave seeping through the material of his oversuit. What he really wanted was to be curled up in front of a warm… “Fire!”

The round eyes blinked hard in disappointment and Sméagol’s thin shoulders drooped. His face furrowed again in thought, then a slow smile spread across his face. “I have eight eyes and eight feet and knees above my belly. I can walk upright, or upside down. What am I?”

After a moment’s thought, Lester smiled. “A spider.”

The answer had obviously come too quickly for Sméagol’s liking and the light in his eyes darkened for a moment, but then the simple pleasure of the game took over, and for an instant, Lester could see what he once might have been and not just the creature he’d become.

“My turn,” Lester said, tuning out the noises from above that indicated that Lyle had finally done as he’d been instructed and was doing his best to get the three exhausted, freaked out cavers through the first major obstacle on their route back to the surface, the Devil’s Arsehole. The two soldiers were amongst the most capable Lester had ever caved with. It would take time, but he knew they were more than equal to what lay ahead. Lester just hoped he was. He didn’t relish having to explain Sméagol’s presence in the group if he lost the game. Thinking of Lyle and Finn brought something else to mind. “ I am black when you buy me, red when you use me, and gray when you throw me away? What am I?

Sméagol was silent, wringing his thin hands together as he muttered to himself and his precious. “What iss it? What iss it, precious? A long time since we have bought anything, precious, yes, a long time? What does it mean, preciousss? Tell us! Tell Sméagol!”

“You want me to tell you the answer?” Lester asked, and immediately cursed his question.

Sméagol jumped up. “No! Still thinking, still thinking, precious!” He paced around the small chamber, clasping and unclasping his arms around his body, shaking his head. “No, don’t tell us, don’t tell us. More time, we just needs more time.” He gulped and gurgled in his throat.

“You’ve had plenty of time,” Lester said, desperate to draw the bizarre competition to and end and get away from his companion.

Sméagol turned and banged his head on the rock wall, desperate for the answer, then he swung around, his eyes gleaming with silver light. “Charcoal, charcoal from the fire! We remember it in the woods, we do! Before we followed the river to the roots of the mountains. Charcoal, it is!”

The simple joy Sméagol took in the answer brought a smile to Lester’s face. “Well done, Sméagol.”

The creature jumped for joy. “Bless us and splash us, precious! Bless us and splash us. Our turn, our turnses now…” He screwed his face up in thought, maybe remembering his days outside the mountains again. “Our turnses… I am a giant that walks the earth….” He puffed himself up and took a large step, his bare feet slapping down in the wet mud. “I swallow the waters and the woods. He took another step, this time towards Lester, who tightened his grip on the shotgun across his knees but tried hard not to let his unease show. Sméagol lowered his voice to a sibilant hiss.“I dread the wind, but I don’t fear men!” He shouted the last half of the sentence and jumped towards Lester, who forced himself not to recoil. “What am I?” Sméagol demanded, his face thrust close to Lester’s, rank, fishy breath heavy on the damp, cold air.

As Sméagol skipped around the chamber and paddled along the edge of the pool, Lester turned the words over in his mind, but the answer stayed stubbornly out of reach. All he could think of was the next riddle he wanted to ask, not the answer to the riddle that had been asked of him. He needed to get a grip, and he needed to get it fast, or he was going to have some explaining to do back at the hotel.

“We win, we win, preciouss!”

“Not yet, you don’t,” Lester said, trying hard to clear the fog from his mind. “Fog! You’re fog!”

“Ach! It’s too clever, precious, too clever it is, curse it and splash it! Curse it and splash it!” To make his point he jumped into the edge of the pool, sending up a swathe of water and mud.

“Don’t be a sore loser, Sméagol. My turn now… The more I take, the more I leave behind. What am I?””

“What is it, precious? What is it my precious?” Sméagol started to pace again like a caged animal, his large, flat feet slapping in the mud.

Lester forced himself to keep his eyes on Sméagol’s face, watching the play of emotion over the surprisingly expressive features. If he looked beyond the pale skin, the emaciated body and the sharp teeth, there was still a vestige of happier times left somewhere that the years of loneliness and scavenging hadn’t quite wiped away. He wished he had something to offer the creature, some sort of hope, something that might drive the darkness away, even if only for a short time. Maybe it would all end as it had been written, but maybe there was still some chance to make a difference… Lester shook himself. That was ridiculous, he wasn’t inhabiting the pages of someone else’s book, it was always possible to make a difference.

Sméagol stamped a foot in the mud, sending up more splatter. One lump landed on Lester’s nose and he brushed it away, probably leaving even more mess behind.

The creature pointed and laughed, and Lester hoped the mud had been enough of a distraction. He joined in the laughter as Sméagol capered around the chamber, dancing to music that only he could hear, his hands raised in the air.

“What is it, preciouss? Bless us and splash us, what is it? Sméagol knows, Sméagol must know!”

“Then what is it?” Lester asked gently. “What is it, Sméagol?”

A foot tapped impatiently in the mud, making a splatting noise. “More time, precious, it’s got to give us more time!”

Lester fought hard to stop himself shouting out the answer, knowing that at any moment, Sméagol might realise that it was actually blindingly obvious. But he desperately wanted to keep the creature’s goodwill, wanted to bring this whole crazy game to an end that didn’t involve the use of a shotgun shell. His dominant emotion was now pity. Pity for a creature deprived of companionship for longer than he could imagine, driven half mad by loneliness and the fear of loss.

“This isn’t your home, Sméagol. Go back to your mountains, follow the river back out to the forest. See the sun and the clouds. Feel the rain. Go back into the light.”

Sméagol turned and raised his head, tears shining in his eyes. “Give us the answer, precious, give us the answer and we’ll go. Sméagol promised, he did, and Sméagol keeps his promises…”

Lester smiled and finally gave into the impulse to look down at the floor of the chamber. “Footsteps, the answer is footsteps.”

Laughter bubbled up in Sméagol’s throat and he made the strange burbling sound again, but Lester thrust the knowledge of the other name away. He had no idea where that other story had come from, but maybe this Sméagol still had a chance. Predetermination was a crap philosophy. If there was one thing he’d learned over the last few years it was that time was more fluid than most people realised, capable of constantly reshaping itself, flowing around events and taking different, unexpected turns.

Sméagol laughed and there was joy in the sound, not anger. “Footsteps!” He slapped his feet in the mud and danced again and his laughter echoed around the chamber, inviting Lester to join in. Lester laughed with him and stood up, slinging the shotgun over his shoulder.

“It was a good game, Sméagol,” he said, when the echoes of their laughter finally died away.

“Bless us and splash us, it was a good game, precious. Sméagol will go now. Maybe we will follow the river again, precious, but first Sméagol has to find the light….”

Lester smiled again. “You will. I’m sure you will.”

With laughter in his throat rather than the gurgling gulp, Sméagol turned and dived into the water. With a sudden flurry, he was gone, leaving ripples spreading in widening circles across the surface of the dark water.

Lester waited until the surface of the pool had grown still, and then he waited even longer, but the water remained quiet. Eventually, he turned away, stowing the rifle in the tackle bag and quickly climbed the short pitch, coiled the metal ladder and stashed that in the bag as well, along with the rope and then other bits of tackle. The rest of the kit left behind by Haller and his friends had already been removed.

Moving quickly to get some warmth back into his cold, stiff body, Lester covered the 40 metres back to the squeeze, and with a grimace, he got down on the floor and shoved the full tackle bag through in front of him. Moments later, the bag was whisked away, and he heard Lyle say, “What kept you, sweetheart? We’ve just managed to get the three of them up the pitch. I had to tell them the eyes in the dark were coming for them to get the fuckers to move…”

“Subtle as ever, darling…”

By the time Lester emerged from the Devil’s Arsehole, he was sweating rather than shivering. Lyle hauled him to his feet and pulled him into a hug.

When they finally drew apart, Lester smiled and said, “Thanks for trusting me, Jon.”

“It wasn’t the first time, and I doubt it’ll be the last.” Lyle kissed him lightly on the lips. “Your nose is covered in mud, by the way. Now come on, before we meet the rescue coming down to meet us.”

“What do we do about those three and their eyes in the dark?”

Lyle’s grin took on a distinctly feral look. “Hallucinating, all three of ‘em. And if they ever forget that, they’ll have more than eyes in the fucking dark to worry about. By the time we’ve dragged their arses out of here, they’re never going to want to think about this trip again, as long as they live. Trust me on that.”

“I do, my little wolverine, I most certainly do.”

“Below!” Finn yelled, as a heavy coil of rope slithered down the pitch.

Lester picked up the free end. “Age before beauty, snookums. Six hours to get ‘em out, you reckon?”

“Five and a half. Five if I shout a lot and take turns with Finn on the hauling.”


End file.
